Fine Line
by the-real-jared-kleinman
Summary: ALL NEW CHAPTERS ARE ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN/AO3, UNDER THE USERNAME 'therealjaredkleinman', WITH UNDERSCORES BETWEEN EACH WORD. SORRY.
1. Army Knife

He fumbled through his messenger bag, clumsy hands searching through pockets to find what he needed.

 _It hurts._

His hands closed over a smooth object, and he pulled it out- it was a Swiss army knife, but not the right one; so he shoved it back in and continued his search.

 _The looks, the stares, when he wears long sleeves and pulls out his first aid kit- nobody should just **have** a first aid kit in their bag._

His fingers ran over engraving, and he pulled it out to find an army knife with smooth letters on one side, **'The pain never hurts as much as you think it will'** , and he thinks that statement's never been truer.

 _He knows why they stare, and he ignores it- it doesn't matter that they know, it just matters Mabel doesn't; that she'll never know._

He pulls the tools out, one by one, searching for the right blade, desperately pretending that he hasn't done this so many times that he's memorized the blade's placement- _he thanked his dad when he first got it, but now he curses the man for starting the deadly addiction-_ but that train of thought's stopped once he finds the blade, **the** blade; he pushes the rest down and stares at it for a second.

 _It was originally just a way to get everything out- carve a symbol then slash it out, get the voices out of his head- but now he was addicted, the sting and the little flood._

He blinks, then takes off his jeans, scrabbling madly and shoving them off like they burned- and in a way, they did, he'd forgotten to bandage one of the hairline cuts and it had stung all morning- but that wasn't important.

 _He'd been addicted from the minute he'd first held a knife to his own skin- the fact that he could actually **feel** something besides the throbbing of his thoughts and voices was spectacular and beautiful to him; and he guessed that was why hd was an addict. Not for heroin or crack-_

He sat down on the filthy public toilet, swinging his left leg up and resting it on his other knee to display his latest 'canvas'- his left calf.

 _But for pain._

He lined the knife up with a previous cut, pressing down **just enough** , and watched as the well opened, his skin parting easily and letting the red flood out.

 _For the sight of blood._

He pulled, making the cut longer by about an inch, and pulled the knife away, absentmindedly cleaning it with toilet paper as he watched the cut bleed.

 _He'd also recently discovered that he liked giving it as much as receiving it- some asshole had called his little sister a slut [they were only thirteen, for chrissakes] and he wasn't gonna take that lying down._

He sighed, before grabbing some more toilet paper and staunching the blood, before pulling his first aid kit towards him- he was glad he had decided to take it out beforehand, he hated it when he had to use unsanitary supplies to clean cuts.

 _What had he even been mad about this morning- oh, right. He and Mabel were going to be going to their Great Uncle Stan's house for the summer; not even given a week's notice._

He grabbed the disinfectant out, pouring some on the wound; next pulling out bandages and gauze to keep it from bleeding through the night- contrary to popular belief, he wanted the cuts to heal.

 _He hoped their relative wouldn't be nosy- or at least that he and Mabel would have separate rooms; don't get him wrong, he loved Mabes, but it'd be nice to... get a break._

He finished wrapping the bandage and secured it, putting all his supplies back neatly into the kit, and then putting the kit into his bag.

 _Maybe he could find a mystery or something to keep him busy... maybe a cute guy?_

He pulled his jeans back on, then gathered up the bloody tissues and put them into the toilet.

 _He hoped Mabel wouldn't try to set him up with another girl, he's tried to explain that he's not interested in girls, but it seemed like she hadn't grasped the concept entirely- and besides, he wasn't entirely sure he was wholly gay._

He flushed, then re-slung his bag over his shoulder and exited the stall, stopping in front of the mirror to fix his beanie and wash his hands of the blood- didn't need Mabel getting worried.

 _He'd never actually had a boyfriend, after all._

Flipping off the homeless guy that'd taken over the handicapped stall, he left the shitty public bathroom and joined the throngs of mindless sheep going about their day and pretending that reality wasn't just a buggy half price bargain bin video game that should have died decades ago.

 _He'd thought about it, sure, but how did a gay guy even find someone to date?_

He stopped at terminal 4, like usual, and had a nice chat with Stacy- stop flirting, please, Stacy, u nice but u a hoe- as he bought his usual 3:55 ticket for Grand Station; the dirtiest one that statistically had 9.67 more homeless people per square six feet.

 _He was already bullied, he didn't need the extra call of 'faggot' down the hall- he was already called that, but Rich Grantley didn't need to know it was true._

He took his (already dirty- how was that possible?) ticket from Stacy and made his way to platform 9 (3/4) to wait for his train.

 _What kind of sick irony did an asshole like Rich need to have to get his name- I mean, he went to their highschool, some rich preppy place, on exactly what he was named after, a grant._

He pulled out his burner phone (he had 3) and checked the time just as the train pulled in- two minutes late, per usual.

 _Even more irony, the founders of the grant were Mason's great-great-grandparents, and the grant was named after them, too- The Stonewall Grant._

As soon as the doors opened, he stepped inside, claiming his seat and observing as everyone else got in- Ms. O'Malley and her cat, Jeff; Ralph Goodblum, who was an accountant for a lawyering firm; the Jane twins, neither of which were twins but both were named Jane and they were the best of friends; three homeless people, they changed every week (he thinks they might be couriers for the nearby drug cartel, based on how they hold their stuff [and the things he hears Homeless Bathroom Guy mumble on his trips]); and Marcy Jones, a cop who's been trying to take down said drug cartel (he may have slipped some notes into her files one day while pretending to report a stolen bike).

 _Sure, the family name's changed from Stonewall to Pines, but it's still the family grant._

He scratches Jeff's chin when the old tabby wanders over to him, and watches as Homeless #1 nudges Homeless #2 and #3, gesturing vaguely to where Marcy sits- maybe; it's really packed in their car, like usual. It's not the first time he's seen the three guys take notice of her, so maybe it's time to warn her that she should vary her routine.

 _Mr. Michaels comes on the next stop, I'll offer him my seat and go warn her. They'll stay put for today, at least._

The train screeches to a stop, and I watch as the passengers pour in. Mr. Michaels is last on, and like Mason thought, he doesn't have a seat. He offers Mr. Michaels the seat, and the old man gratefully accepts, thanking him like he always does. While the cars are stopped, he goes towards Marcy under the guise of looking for a seat. Lucky him, there's one right next to her.

 _Okay, breathe, be careful. She doesn't know you, you gotta establish ethos._

He sits down next to her, and waits for the train to start again before speaking. "Hey, miss. You probably don't know me, but I take the train every weekday home from school, this train, and I've noticed a few things. I know you're a cop, and three homeless guys take this train every week. Before you freak out, I'm trying to help, and I'm thirteen. These guys, there's a different three every week, and they're couriers for a local gang. I figured out that the couriers are starting to notice you, and that you're a cop working to bring down the cartel they work for. They're probably planning to jump you, maybe rob and or kill you. I can read lips, and know some signs that they use. I just wanted to warn you, bring a coworker home with you, they think you're an easy target and I'd hate to feel like it's my fault."

"How did you figure all that out, kid?"

"I've been studying under my uncle, he's a PI, and I've been observing the behavior of all the regulars on this train for the past two years. I also hang out with a bathroom druggie and he talks way to much when he's high. I've seen you come home on the same train every night for the past six months or so, and the couriers make the same signs and say the same things when you've come on for the past two. And I've been told I'm too smart for my age."

"Impressive. Thanks for the warning, kid. I'll take Grantley home with me the next couple of weeks for drinks and stuff."

"Grantley?"

"Yeah? What, you know other cops too?"

"No, I think I go to school with his kid. It's ironic because Rich buys drugs off the two homeless kids in our school, who are also sellers for that gang you're trying to bust. Don't tell him you found out from a kid who went to his school, he'll know it was me."

The train screamed to a stop again, and Marcy got up. "Well, it was nice meeting you..."

"Dipper Pines. It was nice to actually meet you too, Marcy." He shook her hand, and she got off, just as another flood of people got on. Only Homeless #3 actually got off with her, but one of them always sells there, so he thinks she'll be fine.

The train launches into motion again, and Mason contemplates his fate.

* * *

"I'm home!" Mason calls, for once relishing in the silence he gets back. He checks his actual phone for the time- 4:28, as always, and takes off his shoes before making his way to the fridge. He pulls out the milk, sees the half emptiness of it, and shrugs before unscrewing the cap and chugging from the gallon container. He then rescrews the cap, puts the milk back, and delves into the freezer for his hot-pockets.

He pulls them out, then spins to the cupboard holding the plates, grabs one, spins back, and dumps ten of them on a plate that is just barely big enough. He covers the microwavable concoction with paper towel and microwaves it.

In the minute until he has his food, Mason flips on the kitchen light, then goes to the door and turns on the outside light, before finally racing back to the kitchen, sliding on his knees to stop in front of the silverware drawer and grabbing a fork before popping the mimicrowave open just as the timer reads 0 and grabbing out his hot-pockets.

There's a beep as he shuts off the timer, and then he sits down at the kitchen counter, scarfing hot-pockets as he checks his tumblr, hearting a shitpost about some yandere anime before chiming in on a discussion between a feminist and a manly man, denouncing the guy's not all men speech with a simple 'it might not be all men, but it's enough that the female population has to be scared of all of us, and that says quite a bit, dont you think' before shutting off his phone and washing his dishes, loading them up on habit and then grabbing his phone off the island counter and making his way upstairs, messenger bag still on his shoulder.

In his room, he pulls up YouTube and ques up a livestream of relaxing death metal, pulling out his luggage from beneath his bed to Avenged Sevenfold screaming in his ears. He packs up to Brompton Cocktail, and shoves his toiletries in to Pain by Three Days Grace. He finishes just as he hears the garage door open, and he jams headphones into the jack before sprawling out messily on the bed with his already completed homework for AP lang.

He waits, but it's not long until Mabel's bursting into his room and pulling him into a hug with a call of 'Dip-Dop!' that he can hear over his songs, and he thinks briefly that the loudness could maybe pop the head off a zombie before pulling off his headphones and listening to her rant about her band recital and how her solo went.

God, he loves Mabel, but he'd like for her to just shut up please.

Maybe his prayer was answered because Mabel stopped talking and asked him about his day, to which he gave a typical teenage response, 'It was okay.'.

She smiled, figured out he wanted alone time, and then gave a cheery goodbye before slamming his door and getting doted on by their parents. What was it Mabel had called herself when she had realized she was taller than him? Oh, right. Alpha Twin. The better one. She was better, Mason supposed. Wasn't broken, wasn't picked on. Loved by or was envied by everyone she met. Never, ever hated by anyone but the guy who was supposed toto always have her back. Now _that_ was sick irony. Mason both loved his sister and hated her, to the depths of his core.

Or maybe that was just him hating himself for being the imperfect, unwanted second twin with the odd birthmark and strange voices.

Buf that was okay.

Because she loved him enough for the both of them.


	2. Metallic Taste

_'Fuck, it's loud in here.'_ he thinks, looking around the crowded bus. His sister bounces in her seat, and he envies her enthusiasm for their immediate future. He himself is less than pleased, being forced to spend the summer with a great uncle, (Mabel calls him 'Grunkle', and Mason refuses to bow to the silliness of it all) whom they've never even _heard_ of before, in a small town not found on any maps, expected to be alright on the bus there (and back!) by themselves at thirteen!

Sure, Mason knows his way around a switchblade or two, but his _parents_ don't know that! He would scream at the stupidity if he wasn't in a crowded bus filled with strangers, headed to a hick town for God-knows what.

Mason scoffs. Might as well just wait it out, he supposes. He fishes his phone and earbuds out of his pocket and sets up a mix of rock and metal to listen to, settling for what promises to be a long and incredibly boring trip.

* * *

It's halfway to the hick town when Mason realizes: he left his concealer kit at home. He might not have to hide any _new_ bruises, but he still had that one on the back of his neck from Grantley's _friendly chat_ the other day on what he should and should not be telling the faculty. _-should've never trusted that police officer not to namedrop. Stupid.-_ He sighs, hoping that he can just steal some of Mabel's after her first 'summer romance' -aka creep who wants to show her off- date. That shouldn't take long, he can admit his sister is beautiful, not to mention her sweetness and absolutely gullible nature.

He gives her a day, tops, before he's threatening some rapey guy with a switchblade.

Speaking of switchblades... He glances around the bus, noticing that a lot of the previous passengers have left, gotten off at one stop or another as they got closer to Oregon. He huffs, trying to blow a bit of hair away from his face.

He could pull out his butterfly, couldn't he? Nobody's gonna-

He stops that train of thought right where it was. Butterfly knife tricks are way too flashy for inside a still really crowded bus.

After a moment of thought, he settles on going through his army knives and checking for defects, to make sure they were working perfect.

That in mind, he pulls his ever present messenger bag into his lap, and turns to face the isle. His sister's fast asleep on the seat across from him, a full pillow and blanket out. He huffs in amusement, before setting back on his task.

He first pulls his first aid kit out of the bag, sandwiching it between himself and the outer wall of the bus. Next, he pulls out a coil of rope, settling it on the floor and setting his foot inside the loops; then he pulls out a flashlight, a backup flashlight, and his battery pouch, putting those in the triangular space where his legs met on the seat; afterwards grabbing a can of pepper spray, as well as a can of high grade bear spray, and putting those by the flashlight.

He also pulls out two sweatshirts, both maroon with no logos or iron-ons; a pair of jeans, a pair of socks, and his wallet. The clothing he piles in front of him on the seat, the wallet he puts with the flashlights and pepper spray.

That all done, he begins to pull out his most important possessions: his blades. As he goes through the various pouches, out came three plain switchblades, one in white, one in purple, and one in black; two butterfly knives, steel and black respectively; seven swiss army knives, three in black, two in gold, and two in red; and one good old hunting knife, carefully sheathed.

He keeps them inside the bag so as not to freak out the other passengers on the bus (or his sister, a nagging voice at the back of his head reminds him. He kindly gives it a mental two bird salute). Pulling out a light blue cloth from the final pouch, he sets his bag down atop the clothes, on it's side with the opening facing him.

The first knife he pulls out is his hunting knife. He carefully unsheaths it with his left hand, holding it the way he usually does when fighting for a moment (blade facing his elbow, sharper side facing out, sawtooth side in) before flipping it with practiced ease. He quickly polishes the steel, before slotting it back into its sheath.

He goes to put it back, but hesitates for a second. Mabel and him aren't in danger on the bus, but for some reason Mason feels on edge, as if something bad's going to happen. Shrugging he goes with his gut, strapping the knife holster to his belt at the base of his spine. He readjusts his oversized flannel overshirt to hide the knife like he has so many times before, and continues to clean his blades.

He goes through every blade, makes sure everything comes out quickly and doesn't make any odd sounds, then polishes them and clears off any dirt- or blood- he finds.

Over the course of his meticulous cleaning, he adds four more knives to his pockets, including his two butterfly knives, one switchblade, and one of his red swiss army knives. His other knives are tucked into their respective pouches.

One by one, he loads up the rest of his items back into his bag; his clothes are refolded and put back into the bottom, his flashlights are returned to their pocket, his extra battery bag is tucked into the pouch next to that. His two pepper sprays are put into the front and back zip-up pockets on either side of his messenger bag, and his rope gets recoiled tighter and set into the zip-up pouch closest to his body. Putting his wallet into his left pocket, he finally grabs the first aid kit and sets it on top of his clothes.

He zips up his messenger bag and sighs. He remembered his full inventory, even the bear spray he'd been forced to leave at home while at school -it's the only weapon his parents know about besides the pepperspray and that one Swiss Army knife his dad had gotten him.

Stretching, he looked around the bus again to find that most of the passengers had departed, and there were now only four people on the bus all together, not counting himself or Mabel.

'I wonder how long it's actually been since we left?' he mused, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time. 'Wow, it's three in the afternoon! We've been on this bus for what, ten hours?'

No wonder his sister was sleeping, she usually completely crashed by now.

He opens up his phone and begins to play some mindless game that involved using orange balls to break bricks to get points, settling in for the next several hours.

* * *

Mason's jolted awake by a particularly massive bump, his hand instinctively going to his left outer hoodie pocket, where his black butterfly knife waited. He looked around wildly, searching for the threat, only calming once he focused on his sister, calmly snoring away in the seat across from him.

Taking a deep breath, he checked out the window, though it was too dark to see much of anything. The last dregs of sunset were painted over the horizon.

'Night...' he realized, pulling his phone out of his jean pocket, wincing at the light as he turned it on. '8:37, huh? I've been asleep for almost four hours...' He sighed, replacing his phone in his pocket. He checked around the bus, noting the lack of passengers, only one, all the way in the front by the driver; it seemed he was talking to her, maybe to keep her awake? Either way, it didn't matter, his sister would be waking up in an hour or so, so he can finally practice.

He pulls out his black butterfly, flicking it open and flipping it, catching it in his other hand a closing it again.

He continued like that for awhile, practicing the feel of it and how it was balanced, working up to harder and harder tricks.

* * *

"Hm, ah, Dipper?" his sister said, yawning as she finally woke up. He quickly stashed his knife in his pocket, turning over to his sister. "What, ah, what time is it?"

"It's..." he checked the time, "Nine forty-seven. You've been asleep for, like, seven hours."

"Oh, really?" she asked sleepily, sitting up. Mason caught her blanket before it fell to the bus floor, piling it next to her. "Hmm, thanks, Dipdot."

He shrugged. "No problem."

"How long until we're there?" She worms out of her current sweater, pulling her bag over to her and stuffing it inside, grabbing out a pink one with a shooting star on the front and pulling that one on instead. She pulled her legs up criss-cross-applesauce style, and fixed her hairband while she waited for her brother to reply.

"About an hour." he replied, sitting cross-legged to match his sister.

"K." She pulled out her phone, and the faint sounds of a shooter-style game drifted from the speaker. Mason shrugged, putting his own headphones back in and listening to a piano mix.


	3. Beehive

He stretches, checking the time again. '10:43... only a few minutes 'til we're there..' he muses, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. He nudges his sister with his foot, and when she looks up to him he circles his fingers once in the air as their 'clean up' symbol. She nods, and starts packing up her knitting supplies from around her on the bus bench, stuffing them into an oversized duffel bag at her feet.

That done, she pulls her phone out of her pocket, does something, and puts it back, before standing up and stretching like he did not a minute earlier. He chuckles quietly at their similarities, then readjusts all of his stuff. He checks his messenger bag is still firmly secured across his chest, then grabs his backpack from beneath his seat, and checks the contents are all still in order there too. Just as he confirms none of his knives are out of their pockets, the bus screeches to a halt, and the bus driver's companion turns to them.

"Hey, you two, this is the last stop. Gravity Falls." he says, and gestures for them to hurry up.

"Yeah, that's us." Mason replies, tugging his sister along and going down to the other end of the bus. He flashes the guy a small smile, and makes his way down the steps, his sister getting off right after him.

"Cheers." the guy offers, and then the bus doors close and the twins are left at the bus stop. Alone.

* * *

"Oh, is Grunkle Stan not coming to pick us up?" Mabel asks, shaking her phone to turn on it's flashlight and looking around. Though it's a new waxing gibbous, there's barely any moonlight that actually hits the ground, and that makes the woods surrounding them darker. Mason activates his phone's flashlight as well, his other hand inching towards his army knife strapped to the small of his back.

"Hey, Mabel, I know you're not a big fan of violence and stuff, but there could be a dangerous animal out here, so would you be willing to take my bear spray? I don't want you going unarmed." Mason suggested, opening up his messenger bag.

"Sure, Dippin' Dots. I- I can do that." she agrees, coming over to him and grabbing the spray when he offers it. He rezips the bag, and the two of them stand back to back.

* * *

They stayed like that for an hour, an uneasy silence settling around them.

Just as they were about to finally settle down on the half-rotted bus-stop bench, an old red Cadillac pulled up on the road next to them. Mason nearly drew his knife and slashed a tire, but a curious noise from Mabel stopped him.

They both aimed their flashlights at the car, and a man got out of the other side. "You Mabel and Dipper?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Mabel says, while Mason nods.

"Cool. I'm s'posed to bring you two to the Shack for . Name's Soos, good to meetcha." the man introduces, gesturing to the car.

Now that Mason looks closer, the man seems mostly harmless, slightly chubby, but with some hidden muscle. His features were open, easy to read as a book. "Sure." Mason evenly agrees, and the happiness breaks across Soos's face like an egg on a counter.

The twins get into the car, and contrary to Mason's beliefs, they weren't kidnapped or sold into slavery, just driven to an obvious tourist trap called the Mystery Shack. Mason procured his bear spray back from Mabel, and put it back into his bag just as they pulled up.

"Alright, dudes. This is where we part. See you in the morning." Soos declares, parking the car in front of a totem pole. He gets out with the twins, and begins whistling happily as he walks back down the road.

The twins share a glance, and then Mason shrugs, pulling his backpack over his shoulder and making his way into the creaky house. He goes around back, entering through a screen door in the back. Mabel decides to go through the front door, and the evidence it was a bad idea was painted loud and clear when she shrieks loud enough to hurt a zombie's eardrums. He sighs, and drops his backpack at the foot of some stairs before making his way to the source of the scream.

He turns a corner and opens a door to find Mabel, covered head to toe in whipped cream. "Oof, sorry Mabes. I should've warned you. Let's get ya clean, okay?" he offers her, staying just out of reach.

"Sure, Dipper." she agrees quietly, too tired to do more silly things besides lick some of the whipped cream off her hand.

There's no sign of Stan, which Mason finds weird considering Mabel's sheer volume, but he just shrugs it off. Not his problem the old man sleeps better than the dead.

He grabs Mabel by her sweater-and-whipped-cream covered hand, pulling her to upstairs, where he correctly assumes there's a shower she can get clean in. He shoves her in, and then goes back down to clean up the rest of the whipped cream mess and grab a change of clothes for his sister. Once he's done he slips back upstairs and places the clothes just outside the door. He then goes back downstairs, and settles down on the floor of the living room.

A few minutes later, his sister joins him, and they fall asleep leaning against each other.


	4. Dust Mites

A rather loud bleating next to Mason's ear was what woke him the next morning; it startled him into falling over and made Mabel fall onto his hip in a lump. She got comfortable quick, her deafening snores soon re-filling the quiet living room- _at the very ass-crack of dawn_.

He looked around for the source of his new alarm clock, and was met with a goat, who was now calmly eating an... old trench coat that had just _been_ on the couch. NotHIng sTrAngE HeRe!

God, he was starting to think in meme too. He needed therapy.

Well, more than usual.

Oh well, time to kill himself with hot fermented bean juice!

As he made up his mind to get coffee, he very carefully oriented himself so that Mabel wasn't laying on his hip bone, but the small of his back, and quietly pulled himself onto his hands and knees, maneuvering his sister so she sat in nearly the same position she'd been sleeping in before they'd woken up. From there, he raised up onto his knees only; using his now free hands, he supported Mabel's shoulders and head as he turned to face her.

Finally, he was in a position where he could lift her!

He hooked his arm under her legs, and the other onto her side, and hefted. Carrying her over to the couch, he set her down and tucked her in with the blanket that had been wrapped around the twins (when had that happened? They hadn't packed blankets?). He huffed in fond exasperation when she automatically grabbed for his hand, even though she was sound asleep. He sat next to the couch for a minute or two, playing with her fingers until she seemed to settle down again.

He made his way to the dinky kitchen and dug through the fridge, finding a carton of expired milk (already chunky), some moldy ham, and... a half decent carton of eggs with a non-expired expiration date, in fact. And found some decent creamer.

Doing the same to the cupboards, he found a box of pop-tarts, some live mice in traps, a large plastic container of some kind of chocolate cereal, three dead cacti, and an orange, intact.

Taking his prizes and leaving the trash, he put the pop tarts and orange onto the counter, then he carried the creamer to the holy bean machine, where he proceeded to sit for three minutes to try and get it to work. It finally started up at 7:12:03, not a moment sooner, and he eagerly loaded up some instant coffee and water, waiting for the blessed drink to make itself. As he waited, he located the toaster, and stuck poptarts in all four slots.

He pressed down the lever for the toaster and went to sit next to the coffee machine again, grabbing the orange and starting to peel it as he watched the holy drink pour into the coffeepot. He munched on the orange, waiting in comfortable silence and taking in his surroundings.

The kitchen he was in was nothing special, just wooden walls, one painted white with nice patterns and the other three left blank. The floors were a whitewashed grey color, though he had to admit it was a nice color nonetheless. The curtain fringe above the windows (strangely missing the curtains) was a faded ugly green, but that allowed for lots of light to stream through, illuminating the early-morning dust mites and adding to the serenity of the place. The counters were laminate, and the cabinets were a similar brown to the walls. The table he sat at was little more than a card table and some actual chairs, although why he couldn't fathom, and the fridge looked like it was about to keel over and die.

There was also a bone-dry rib cage on a wooden table pushed against the opposite wall of the fridge, but Mason was trying his best to ignore it.

The coffee machine beeped, and he was brought back to the here and now, leaving his orange peels on the table in favor of grabbing out a mug he had found from his escapades earlier, as well as a paper plate for his poptarts. He poured himself a large cup of joe, and poured the last of the creamer into it, humming and sipping as he waited for his food to pop up. It was starting to smell decently nice in the kitchen, too, instead of slightly rotting wood.

The poptarts popped, and he grabbed those out too, not minding the little burn he got on his pinkie (gotta put solvent on it, Mabel wouldn't be happy...) and eats his breakfast in peace. That is, he would have, if _some people_ could be **_quiet_** in the goddamn **_morning!_**

Someone old, presumably their great uncle, yelled from the living room, "WHO in the FLAMING PITS OF HELL is this little girl on my COUCH?!"

Mabel, predictably, did not wake up to that, so Mason decided to go back to the living room with his coffee and poptarts.

"We're your grand nephew and niece. We came last night. I'm Mason, that's Mabel." he introduced from behind his great uncle, leaning against the doorframe.

"Bloody Mary, there's another one!" The old man was in his fifties or sixties at least, wearing nothing but a tank top and boxers.

"Nice to see you too, Great Uncle Stanford." The tone Mason used wasn't exactly... _cold,_ per se, but it wasn't very warm. "I'd tone down the swearing if I were you, you'll get an earful from Mabel about how you shouldn't swear around kids and stuff. Annoying as fuck."

He readjusted his cap, and he saw how Stanford rested his eyes on Mason's birthmark. "Staring's rude." he snipped.

"Call me Stan."

"What?"

"Great Uncle Stanford's a mouthful. Call me Stan."

Mason shrugged. "Alright, Stan." He pushed past Stan to his sister, waving the two remaining poptarts under her nose.

Her nose wrinkled, sniffed, and then she let out a yawn and peeked open an eye.

"Poptarts, smores. Your favorite," he promised, gently shaking her shoulder a bit. Satisfied she had woken up, he placed the poptarts on the table nearest her head and sipped some more of his coffee, moving to their stuff and digging through his backpack for his clothes. He grabbed out a pink print t-shirt with the words 'Pop Culture Reference' in black on it, a blue flannel shirt, a black zip hoodie, and a new pair of socks.

Putting his stuff back next to his messenger bag, he gathered up his clothes, ignored Stan; who was still just standing awkwardly; and went upstairs to change.

As he'd thought, he'd left his 'favorite' knife in the pocket of the black hoodie, but he saved that for later. Instead, he quickly changed clothes, pulling on the shirt, then the flannel, then the hoodie, making sure to cover up his arms even though it was the beginning of summer, and then his underwear, pants, and socks. He searched the pockets of his now discarded green hoodie from the day before, and transferred all the knives from there to onto his body again. He tucked his 'favorite' knife into the left pocket of his jeans, and then strapped the hunting knife to his belt, his two butterflies to his pockets, his switchblade to his right-hand jean pocket, and his red swiss into his flannel breast pocket. After he was done, he inspected himself in the mirror.

Same legs, same arms, same relentlessly freckled face, same too-long brown hair (he really needs to get it cut soon, it's impeding his vision) same brown trucker cap, same 'innocent' appearance. Same dead brown eyes. Satisfied he didn't look terrible, he fixed his hat one more time and went back downstairs, finding Mabel up and awake, munching on the last of the second poptart with Stan sipping coffee in the armchair, watching Ducktective. He zipped his dirty clothes into his backpack and slung his messenger bag back over his shoulder, joining his sister on the couch and grabbing his coffee off the coffee table.

They sit like that in peace, content.


End file.
